Secrets of the Dead

‘Do you think a Christian killed him?’

His shock is so natural I almost believe it’s real. ‘God forbid. They spit and scratch, but they don’t bite.’

I don’t disagree. I don’t know anything about the Christians.

‘But people will speculate. Others will say the murder of Alexander was an attack on all Christians by those who hate them. These wounds are raw, Gaius. We fought fifteen years of civil war to unite the empire and restore peace. It can’t fall apart now.’

He’s right to worry. He built his city in a hurry. The cement is hardly dry, and already cracks are appearing.

‘In two weeks, I’ll leave on campaign. In two months, I’ll be a thousand miles away in Persia. I can’t leave this problem behind. I need someone I can trust to do it quickly. Please, Gaius. For our friendship.’

Does he really think that’s something to sway me? There are things I’ve done for our friendship that even the god Christ, notoriously lenient, wouldn’t forgive me.

‘I was going to go home to Moesia next week. Everything’s arranged.’

Something like nostalgia enters his expression. His eyes take on a far-off look.

‘Do you remember those days, Gaius? Playing in the fields outside Nis? Climbing into the hen coops to steal eggs? They never caught us, did they?’

They never caught us because your father was the Tribune. I don’t say it. You meddle with an old man’s memories at your peril.

‘I should go back there – feel native soil under my feet again. When I come back from Persia.’

‘You’ll always be welcome at my house.’

‘I’ll be there. And you’ll be there sooner. As soon as you’ve solved this problem for me.’

And there it is. A god doesn’t have time for protracted wrangling. We could have debated it for hours, days, but he’s condensed all his arguments into a single sentence. And all my resistance and evasions, my determination not to get involved, collapse to an instant decision.

‘Do you want a culprit? Or do you want me to find out who actually did it?’

It’s a crucial question. In this city, not all murders are crimes. And not all criminals are guilty. Constantine, more than anyone, understands that.

‘I need you to find out who did it. Discreetly.’

He wants the truth. Then he’ll decide what to do with it.

‘If I go knocking on the Christians’ doors, will they open for me?’

‘They’ll know you’re there for me.’

I’m there for you. All my life, I’ve been there for you. Your counsellor and friend; your right arm, when action was required and you had to sit still. Your audience. You perform, I applaud. And obey.

He claps his hands and a slave appears out of air and shadow. I’d forgotten: in this city, there’s always another audience. The slave carries an ivory diptych, two panels hinged together with leather bands. The front is carved with a cameo of the Emperor, his eyes turned skyward and a solar crown on his head. Next to it, the familiar X-P monogram, the same as on the necklace. A few lines of text inside derogate Constantine’s authority on me.

‘Thank you for doing this, Gaius.’ He embraces me, and this time something like warmth passes between our two old bodies. He whispers in my ear: ‘I need someone I trust. Someone who knows where the bodies are buried.’

I laugh; it’s the only thing to do. Of course I know where the bodies are buried. I dug most of the graves myself.

III

Present Day

THE WALL WAS grey and pocked. The roof was white. The door was wood, with a smudged glass window and a crucifix above it. A static hum filled the air, and also an irregular beeping sound, like the random firings of an antique video game. She hurt like hell.

She lay on her back, concentrating on the details to fight off the pain. The wall wasn’t pocked: that was an illusion caused by paint peeling off the concrete. Grey paint. She wondered who on earth bothered to paint concrete grey. The beeping wasn’t irregular: it came from two sources, subtly out of rhythm with each other. One started behind the other, closed in on it until – for a few merciful seconds – they ran almost in synchrony, then overtook it and pulled away.

The roof wasn’t all white. Dark patches stained the tiles like spilled wine.

The smudge on the window moved. It wasn’t on the window: it was outside, someone standing with his back to the door. She waited for him to go away, but he didn’t.

Where am I? she thought. And then, a second later and infinitely more terrifying, Who am I?

Panic seized her. She tried to get up and found she couldn’t move. The panic redoubled; she couldn’t breathe. Her heart raced out of control so fast she thought it would explode. The room began to go dark. She writhed and fought; she screamed.

The door flew open. A man in a tight-fitting suit burst through, shouting words she couldn’t understand. His jacket flapped open. A gun bulged from a brown leather holster under his arm.